The Jailed's Question
by silveredges
Summary: Hermione manages to get her ex-professor out on parol, but a question he asks of her stops her in her tracks. Can she answer, or is the answer bigger then something one can discuss in a jail cell?


Hermione stepped into the craterous holding cell, the clicking of her neatly polished shoes serving as a counterpoint to the o

Hermione stepped into the craterous holding cell, the clicking of her neatly polished shoes serving as a counterpoint to the ominous dripping of something wet that all jails seemed to have in the background. Azkaban was no exception.

The dark figure huddled, no not huddled, Severus Snape would never huddle, on the wooden planks that formed a bed at the opposite end of the room shifted. A too pale and fiercely gaunt face lifted itself to meet her gaze. Hermione couldn't stifle the tiniest of gasps that caught in her throat. No matter that she had been coming to this cell to meet with this man for the better part of three months, it always surprised her at how malnourished he looked.

"Miss Granger." Her ex-professor stated blandly, for all the world as if they were once again in the dingy potions room.

"Snape." Hermione responded curtly. She had come to call him that, reluctantly dropping the honorific 'professor' at the beginning as her own decision to no longer let him intimidate her. "We did it. You're free."

Snape's eyes flickered, for a moment eager and hopeful, before returning to dejection. "Surely you are mistaken, prisoners of the degenerate nature, as I have been labeled, are never to be released."

The flicker was all Hermione needed, "You are on bail, but don't worry, you'll be permanently free soon. Sooner then soon if I have anything to say about it." Her brown eyes flashed irately at those who would defy her.

"Indeed? And what is freedom for one such as I?" Snape asked. Hermione has taken aback at the look on his face, it was oddly open, as if truly asking her to level with him.

"Whatever you crave, I suppose." Hermione replied, tapping the black heel tip against the stone flooring, this was hardly part of her problem. Her role in Snape's little drama was just to free the hero instead of allowing him to die the traitor's death.

"That's not what I meant." Snape murmured, sweeping one hand across his face. "I meant, what life can I live?"

"The one you choose, I suppose you could pick up teaching where you left off." Hemione responded, unsure whether Snape's question had been aimed at her or at himself.

His eyes focused on her. "you truly do not understand, do you?" he demanded. "Maybe I'm just being a stupid fool…" he buried his face in his hands, too thin shoulders slipping forward.

"Maybe you could explain it to me?" Hermione asked, even as she found her clicking heels taking her to sit down next to the ragged looking prisoner.

"Miss Granger, try to pay close attention, because I will only say this once. My body has been beaten, tortured. My back bent to the intentions of numerous masters. The strength of my arms desecrated even as the swiftness of my limbs was sacrificed upon the alter of battle. My mind has been raped with the strategies of war. My heart twisted and darkened beyond imaginings due to the sins I have committed. My pride has been subjugated to all the desires of others, and my honor, stolen from me the moment I took the spy's badge. What the hell do I have left?"

Hermione considered a waspish answer momentarily before deciding to level with her old professor as he seemingly had with her. "You have your soul, here," she pointed to his chest bone. "The sight of your eyes," she pressed a finger to his temple. "The wish of your breath," she dropped her hands to her lap, remembering similar discussions she had had with herself before. "That is enough, it has to be."

Snape looked at her, struck by her desperation of the last comment. "The war scarred the both of us, didn't it?"

Hermione met his gaze and replied frankly, "Yes, I think some scars run far more deeply then we want people to see."

"Then what shall we live for, us two survivors?"

Hermione hesitated as their gazes locked. "I suppose we live, because we can. That's the only reason any of us lives. Perhaps also to love, whether it be a man, woman, family, leader, government, religion, or even yourself. You live to live and love. That's all it comes down to."

"Do you honestly believe I still have the capacity to love? To care that deeply?" Snape inquired lightly, studying the facets of his palms.

Hermione lightly laid her own hand in his, a gesture of friendship. "I know so. I would never have spent this much time on a dead man, because that is what really kills you, your inability to love. The fact that we're having this conversation proves you are still with us in the world of the living and caring."

Snape nodded, squeezing the manicured tipped fingers in his grasp. "Then what are we still doing here? Let's get out of here and live."

He stood up so quickly that Hermione was compelled along with him by his grip on her hand. The door to his cell swung shut, hiding away all the dark thoughts and evil murmurs it created. Hermione silently promised herself and the exhilarated man next to her that she would die before she saw him returned to that pit.


End file.
